As any of you who know me know, I would never suggest anyone move to Morgantown, WV. I love parts of that state, and I'm all about Appalachia, really. But I don't know anyone who's had a good run in Mo-town. Bad, bad mojo. So I write poems about it.
Noise Before Breaking
I had Ladies of the Canyon
and white carpets when I first moved
back to the mountains.
My wife and I slept in a house
where a single-bed woman kept photos
with yellowing silver on the walls.
I picked and pitted cherries
and cherries and cherries.
Someone else mowed the lawn.
I picked basil and wild, expressive
oregano that struggled to move
into the condos being built next door.
Walking took us on a road where
the locals we were trying to become
swerved sharply by.
White carpet. Single bed.
This was a quiet house.
You could hear the spiders’ claws tick.
Dinner was steamed greens
and whatever would fit
in the small pans of a single-bed woman.
We parked our U-Haul
on the kinked driveway—newly blacked.
We kept all our stuff locked.
Two years later
driving that same road
I could never find those condos.
Terrible place, yes. Though it occurs to me that more than one good thing in my life came from there.
Posted by: Kat | June 19, 2006 at 03:27 PM